Underneath the House
by notmagnificent
Summary: "Bullshit. A word he learned from his dad. A word that got him beaten even harder when his father heard it muttered in between ragged, pain-soaked breaths. But nevertheless, the perfect word. For everything." SERIOUS angst warning, rated M to be safe.


**A/N: This fic is based on an amazing song called John Wayne Gacy Jr. by Sufjan Stevens (which you should totally listen to while reading this). The song is based on the life of John Wayne Gacy, a.k.a. the 'Killer Clown'.**

**John Wayne Gacy grew up in Illinois. In his lifetime, he chloroformed, sexually assaulted, and killed twenty seven young men and buried their bodies underneath his home. Gacy also had a sort of obsession with clowns, once joking that "only a clown could get away with murder."**

**I listened to this song, and _something_ about it demanded that I write a songfic. What with the name John, the allusions to the bodies _under the HOUSE,_ etc, I couldn't NOT do this. ;D**

**Oh, and yah. SERIOUS tissue warning. Or maybe, like, therapist warning.**

_His father was a drinker  
And his mother cried in bed  
Folding John Wayne's t-shirts  
When the swingset hit his head_

"Come on, Greg. It's _so simple,_ kid."

_Kid. Like I'm some vagabond child running a lemonade stand by the side of the road._

_'Here's your quarter, kid.'_

"Just swing your legs. Extend them on your way up, tuck them under you when you go down. You've gotta be a dumbass not to figure it out."

John House grabbed his son by the waist from behind and shoved him forward, propelling him into a fearful arc below the backyard swingset. A universal object of fun and whimsy turned into a torture device, a memory associated with pain and shame. Only John could turn such an innocent plaything into repressed memories.

_Don't scream. Don't wail. Don't whimper,_ Greg willed himself, remembering the last time he made a sound.

_John slaps his son across the face. "Only girls cry on the swings, Nancyyyy."_

His eyes widened painfully, cold air stinging the already icy blue.

Suddenly, the younger House's grip slipped from the rusty chain, propelling him from the seat.

John looked at his son; no, did not look at him, but simply glanced in his direction, afraid that a piercing stare will actually bind this _pussy_ of a child to him, actually force him to call himself that boy's father.

Greg wouldn't have noticed anyways though, for he kept his gaze to the ground as a peasant in the prescence of The Ark. As he picked himself off the ground, John yanked the swing seat back and slammed it into his son's head. The cry of a young boy rang in his ears. A _young boy,_ not a man. Not the cry of the man _he_ was at seven years old. The man John _had to be._

Greg gingerly peeled his face from the dust and noticed a movement in the living room window. His mother had put the laundry down and was sliently shaking her head and crying. Even as a young child, at seven years old, Gregory House know that his mother would get it later.

_"John, he's just a boy."_

_"That's the goddamn problem, Blythe!"_

_Greg hears the slap even from the back porch, through the open window upstairs._

_"Now you'd better shut up and keep your head in the kitchen, bitch."_

"Greg," his father addressed him.

"Yes, sir?" he responded dutifully, swiftly picking himself up at his father's unspoken command.

"Go to the shed, and I'd better not see you 'till 5am sharp tomorrow morning."

"Yes, sir."

_The neighbors they adored him  
For his humor and his conversation  
Look underneath the house there  
Find the few living things,  
Rotting fast in their sleep  
Of the dead._

Flashy lights, pretty, slender women in regal gowns, and crisp military uniforms could not fool Gregory House. The lavish banquet tables studded with gleaming turkey and glistening ham and golden loaves of bread could not entice him.

His mother told him that they must go to the military honor banquet because his father was recieving a medal. Greg, ever the curious one, looked up at her, the question _why?_ etched into the very planes of his prepubescent face. He remembers his mother's response:

_Because, honey, your father is a hero. He has made great contibutions to this country._

Bullshit. A word he learned from his dad. A word that got him beaten even harder when his father heard it muttered in between ragged, pain-soaked breaths.

But nevertheless, the perfect word. For everything.

His father was not a hero. He was a _fool._

Hm. Another recurring term. This entire night was just _fools fooling fools._

Government _fools_ who took a criminal record and turned it into an achievement list.

_Murder._

_Congratulations, here's a medal._

_Espionage._

_What a valiant man!_

_Conspiracy._

_He deserves a parade!_

Everybody in attendance was a fool too. Getting sucked in by the glamour of being a military wife, or an army brat. Greg had learned all too well that all that glitters is a steaming pile of shit.

"Hey, little man." A lady in a short red dress bent to his level. "Which one is your daddy?"

_Which one. Like school projects lined up at the science fair, every kid hoping that they have made the best poster, and each one of them completely oblivious to the fact that they mean _nothing.

Despite this, Greg pointed to the table from which he had wandered.

"John House?" she asked, obviously awestruck. Greg just nodded in an attempt to quell any further questions this strange lady had and move on with his explorations.

"Then you must be Gregory," she squealed, now a twelve-year-old girl much like the ones in his class, delighted by miniature versions of everything. "Your father is a wonderful man. So brave, and so kind." She ruffled his hair a bit and walked off, her two inch heels clicking as she stepped.

The second her hand left his shoulder, another took its place with a hard clap.

John touched one knee to the ground and stuck his mouth next to his son's ear. Perhaps the scariest thing was that he kept his easygoing smile the entire time, as if this brought him as much pleasure as anything else he did there.

"If you so much as _shift_ _in your seat_ when we get back to the table, I will not hesitate to grab your legs and pound you so hard against the ground you'll never walk again, _do you understand me?"_

Greg's heart skipped a beat.

"Yessir."

"Good," he replied, with a bone-snapping squeeze of the shoulder much too hard for the bones of a twelve-year-old.

"Good."

_And in my best behavior  
I am really just like him  
Look beneath the floorboards  
For the secrets I have hid_

Greg stared meaningfully at the little white pill in his hand. He knew he shouldn't take another one, but God it _hurts so bad._ It was not just his leg flaring up again, not the same lie he uses day in and day out. His _everything _hurt. It felt as if every single scar was being carefully and meticulously reopened, in just the right way so that he felt the maximum amount of pain. His father was gone now, dead and gone and _what a good riddance,_ but still he plagued House. The torture seemed neverending, and maybe it is, maybe his brain will forever be welcomed into the land of sleep by his father's arrogant smile, maybe the rain will never wash away the memories but pour salt into the open wounds.

Greg turned the pill around in his fingers and slowly brought it to his lips, but did not touch it to his eager tonuge quite yet.

His father loved to get drunk. _Loved _it. He would go to the bar with his friends, smile the entire night in anticipation, and come home with just enough energy to squeeze in a couple beatings.

Oh, it's not like John didn't abuse his family when he was sober. He was just..._more creative_...when inebriated.

_"B-b-b-but sir...W-w-why do I h-have to..." Greg's body shakes violently with gut-wrenching sobs._

_"'Cause I said so, dumbass. It'll be funny. Now shoot the damn dog."_

_"B-b-but I...I love Gracie..."_

_The click of John's handgun rings loudly in Greg's ears._

_"Shoot your fucking dog or I'll blow you to bits."_

_Even though he is drunk as hell, even though he is holding the gun in the wrong hand (his dominant one is busy with the scotch), Greg knows that his father could still shoot him _accurately _wherever the fuck he pleases, so with a final hiccup and a flick of the finger, he complies and watches his beloved friend die at his own hands._

Greg's gaze fell on his own glass of scotch (same brand as his father's, even), the amber liquid casting a gloden glow on the vicodin in its shadow.

His cracked lips parted to allow sweet relief into his body.

Yes, he has his vices.

But what man doesn't have the tiniest something hiding under his floorboards?

**I think this may have been the most fun I've ever had writing a fic (which is disturbing on multiple levels), and I certainly hope you had just as much fun reading this!**

**Reviews are treasured and snuggled thoroughly!**


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